Not Soon Enough
by OhMyScience
Summary: I've got to stop writing reunion fics between these two. Sherlock comes back to see Johh, but it seems he's not thrilled to see him. All rights go to the BBC.


John Watson had finally got himself to adjust without Sherlock. There were no more long nights worrying about Sherlock not sleeping enough, eating enough, making sure he was just functioning normally . . . well as normal as Sherlock Holmes could possibly be. _Sherlock is dead,_ John would tell himself. Those things were now absent from his life. Of course, he was still haunted with dreams of the war; that had never changed. His nightmares would be painted with blood. Blood of his comrades; blood of his broken friend. Pools of it, glistening everywhere. However, dreams about Sherlock and his suicide became less and less frequent as the years passed. The dreams were few and far in between. If they entered John's mind, he could deal with them.

…

John sat in his chair, back at his old flat just outside of London. His laptop sat in front of him on the coffee table, a mug of hot tea beside it. His desktop calendar told him it would be three years exactly, two days from today. But he didn't dwell on the memory for long. The army doctor had decided, just months before, that he would not spend every waking moment upsetting himself over Sherlock. He refused to let his very name bring tears to his eyes at any and every point he was mentioned. The man had once been his best friend, the very center of John's life. But not now. John wouldn't forget him, no. That wouldn't ever be possible. He simply decided to soldier up and accept the fact that Sherlock Holmes, worlds only consulting detective, was dead.

Absently, John wondered what Mycroft would be doing that day. Although he knew the Holmes brothers had never truly gotten along, John knew Mycroft loved his brother all the same. Did he not say "I worry about him constantly" the very same day they met?

John shook his head, clearing away the thought. Thoughts about the fall could wait a few days.

Just as he took a swig from his mug of tea, there was a knock on the door to his flat. Someone was quite eager to come in; a rapid succession of loud knocks sounded for about one and a half seconds. John set down his mug. Sighing, he pushed himself up from the chair. He checked the time as he made his way to the door. 10:00pm. _My God, who's visiting at this bloody hour?_ he thought.

He unlocked the deadbolt and swung the door open fully. John hadn't bothered to check the peephole, as he rarely ever did anyways.

It took him a second to register who was standing before him. There he stood in his coat, his tall and slim frame still held with an air of importance. His face looked hallow now; the pale skin had sunken in around his prominent cheekbones. Coat collar turned up, curly jet black locks that were longer than ever, and piercing blue-green eyes stared unblinkingly back at him. There was no denying the man that stood in the hallway outside John's flat.

"Sh-Sherlock . . . how—" John stammered, emotions flooding him all at once.

"John," Sherlock said simply. Neither of them was moving. Sherlock didn't look as though he wanted to come in, and John made no move to let him enter. John felt angry. He was hurt; a wound that took so long to heal seemed to split open under Sherlock's gaze. The more he realized that Sherlock Holmes wasn't actually dead, that he was obviously alive and standing before him, the more he felt that Sherlock thought he could just show up and everything would return to normal. And that was far from okay.

"What the BLOODY HELL are you doing here, Sherlock? Three years I thought – no, ACCEPTED the fact that you were dead. Three. Fucking. YEARS. That wasn't exactly easy!" John said in a harsh tone.

Sherlock was shocked. He had arranged so much just to be able to see John. Loneliness had almost literally killed him. It was something he had never felt to that extent. Not before John Watson came into his life. Once he had gone…

"John I . . . I didn't realize you'd be this upset," he said.

"Do you know how long it took me just to get through one day – just one – without crying or getting upset just because someone said your name? There were times I wanted to end it . . . just end it all. Because of your stunt. You think you can walk in here – just show up at my door, and everything will be okay? It doesn't work that way, Sherlock!" John shook with rage, fighting off the urge to punch the appalled look off his face.

The consulting detective seemed to take an astonished step back. His face was ridden with years of guilt. Guilt that had eaten him alive, being away from John for so long. "Please," Sherlock said, an edge of longing in his voice, "don't do this John. I was alone for so long. You need to know that . . . things seemed . . . less dull with you." The things Sherlock truly wanted to get across to John seemed almost unreachable in his brain.

John stared back at him, still fueled with anger. Sherlock thought he saw him relax a bit, but only so.

"And I was just beginning to think that I could cope with your death. You, not being around to constantly make me rethink my entire life and what I was doing with it. No, you had to show up two days before. Two days, Sherlock," John's voice had gone to a whisper. He shook his head, dropping their intense gaze.

"I faked my death to save you, John. My life didn't matter. It was all to protect you, can't you see?" Sherlock almost pleaded, begging John to look back up at him.

"It's too much, Sherlock. That miracle I asked for…well I suppose it came too late," John said, referring to his words in the cemetery. A few seconds passed. Both men stood in the doorway. John was trying to process his emotions. It's not as if he was entirely angry, because he wasn't. Something inside him, nagging at the back of his mind all those years, hoped Sherlock wasn't dead. And here he was at John's doorstep. But there simply wasn't enough happiness to drown out the pain. Sherlock, after hearing John's words, felt emptier than ever before. John spoke again, "Please go, Sherlock." He was looking anywhere but at the other man.

Sherlock reached out, longing to make contact after three long years. Just to feel something solid again. But inches away, John grasped his wrist. His fingers lingered for a moment, tan fingers against pale ones, before he gently pushed Sherlock's hand away.

He knew now that even though returning to John had been a mistake, it had been necessary. Sherlock nodded his head sadly. He would have to leave John. Again. "I'm sorry," he said, stepping back to allow John to close the door. It shut, creating the barrier between the consulting detective and his blogger once more.

John clicked the deadbolt in place. Numbly, he walked back to his bedroom. He sat on the bed and stared at the wall, unseeing. He changed into his pajamas after a while, getting into bed. Soon he would be greeted with fitful sleep that would bring back the nightmares that once left his throat sore from calling Sherlock's name. Dreams of war, and of blood on the pavement.


End file.
